Slipping
by AussieNinjaChick
Summary: Text intervention written in the style of Fitzgerald hopefully George's POV from when Myrtle was locked up to after.


**Hi! It's been ages since I uploaded anything, and this probably isn't what anyone would be expecting. This was actually written for my English assessment - an intervention for the novel The Great Gatsby, written in the style of Fitzgerald. The idea was that it would be able to be slotted in, but of course in someone other than Nick's POV.**

**George Wilson's POV, coming in where Myrtle is locked up. Enjoy :)**

"Beat me!" she cried, her raucous voice thick with the tears that rolled down her plump rosy cheeks. From across the dimly lit room her red-rimmed eyes bored into my soul with a stare so full of a raging hatred that could not be extinguished. I stood between her and the door and she hated me for it. I let the world slip away around me and she hated me for it. I failed her and she hated me for it. I turned my gaze to the window, trying to escape her scorching gaze but instead met the faded blue orbs of Dr Eckleberg, his yellow frames and flat face sun-strained and dusted in a layer of ash and soot. The setting sun casted shadows at the base of the forever watching sign, highlighting strips of the overgrown grass bellow that reached and stretched out their arms towards the face they craved. The world outside screamed and cried with neglect, from the screeching of the filthy railcars as they attempted to grind to a stop, spewing blackness over the dismal landscape as they did so, to the ash that rained from the sky, fluttering and dancing on its path to the cracked and blackened ground.

Ragged breathing dragged me back inside where my wife continued to spit her venom, sweat sliding down her painted face, mingling with the tears that still coursed from her eyes which from there lead sooty black tracks to her quivering lips. Those lips took on a harder set and within seconds she was on her feet and gliding across the room in a fury. She wanted to leave, so I told her we were. She wanted to leave _alone_, her red lips formed the horrid word, slowly, deliberately, painfully. With my grimy hands outstretched towards her, almost within reach, I tried to reason, tried to get her to stay.

"I love you. Please don't leave me." My words so full of meaning and emotion caused disgust to contort her once beautiful face and she was screaming again. The fire returned, as ferocious as ever, hating everything I'd ever done from renting a suit for our wedding to failing to wisp her away across the lands and oceans, giving her a life that she told me she deserves.

"Beat me! Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!" My hands did not obey, falling limply to my sides instead. With my defeat she slipped from the room, tumbled down the stairs and threw herself into the dusk. I followed after her, desperate to stop her, to keep her with me. At the bottom of the stairs I heard it before I saw anything. The roar of the engine, the skidding of wavering tires, the sickening thud and the scream that was cut off before it could amount to anything. A flash of yellow being enveloped into the darkness was all I saw as I threw myself outside after her.

As I took in the image the world blurred and only colours registered. Myrtle's crimson in the darkness, the deep navy of the police officer's uniform, mentions of the colour yellow. A yellow car. Then Tom was in my face, taking back his words from earlier. The car wasn't his, he told me. And then he was gone - they were all gone except for a few. The world blurred again and it could have been hours or it could have been days; rocking as if I was on a boat in the calm seas, small waves lapping at the hull. But I was not on a boat and the waves were not calm, instead they were noisy, violent and crashing in my ear while pushing me side to side. These waves washed me out of the garage, carrying me miles and miles down the street.

The ripping sensation of my scalp joined in with the explosive and blinding pain of my heart as my grease soiled hands pulled at the pale lengths hair. The dull strands glimmered in the moonlight from my furled fist and I sunk to the sooty ground, holding my aching head in my hands, closing my raw and fatigued eyes. A group of boys watched me from across the road, judging me, whispering to each other. A car zoomed between the boys and me and I screamed, my head in a vice-like grip in my useless hands. The cars mocked me as they sailed past; they told me I wasn't good enough, that it was my fault she ran away, that I'll never get her back. My dead Myrtle's voice joined in with the mockery.

"You're a coward. You're useless. I need a real man." The tumultuous din built louder and louder in my ears. Blaring horns, screeching rails, the taunting whispers of the boys, Myrtles words all joining together into a pernicious confusion. One thing stood out in my crazed mind - the yellow car. I must find the yellow car.


End file.
